Several years ago, while walking around Wimbledon in the player’s complex just above our press facility, I ran into Jimmy Connors. I was interviewing players at the time for a piece about their favorite US Open memories, and wanted to hear from Connors about the single-most memorable recollection he had from all of his years of competing at a tournament he valued above all others. The Open was, after all, his playground, the place where he kept the fans captivated year after year from the 1970s into the early '90s, the major where he was such an evocative performer that no one else could match his charisma.
Be that as it may, I assumed that Connors would mention one of his many triumphant years as the champion. I figured he would bring up, perhaps, his 1976 final round win over Bjorn Borg at Forest Hills. Maybe he would mention his last triumph in 1983, when he toppled Ivan Lendl for his fifth title. Yet his answer came unhesitatingly. He said, “1991 and my run to the semifinals. Best 11 days of my career.”
It was indeed a startling journey for Connors, who turned 39 during that fortnight. He had appeared in every US Open from 1970-89, competing ferociously for 20 consecutive years. In 16 of the last 17 years in that sparkling stretch, Connors was a quarterfinalist or better. In US Open after US Open, time after time, no matter how well he had been performing heading into the tournament, his standards remained remarkably high and his legion of fans vociferously urged him on as he established himself as a singularly compelling player with an appetite for success that was second to none.
At the end of 1990, Connors had wrist surgery. He came to the Open in 1991 as a wildcard, ranked No. 174 in the world. Across an unforgettable Labor Day afternoon, Connors collided with fellow American Aaron Krickstein in the round of 16, and seldom if ever has a US Open audience been so enthralled over the course of a long match. That crowd in Louis Armstrong Stadium was riveted from beginning to end, and only a scant few were cheering for the earnest and likable Krickstein. Nearly everyone else was rooting unabashedly for Connors, who was orchestrating the fans with fist-pumping, imploring them to raise the level of their appreciation whenever he needed the psychological boost.
Connors constantly found himself in precarious positions as he celebrated his 39th birthday in a combative mood. He lost the first set before saving two set points in capturing the second. Connors was the aggressor in this duel, coming forward persistently, looking to end points at the net, trying to find ways to prevent Krickstein from ruling in long and rhythmic rallies. Krickstein ran away with the third set before Connors retaliated in the fourth.
Krickstein was unruffled despite feeling as if he was playing in a foreign country rather than his own. Nonetheless, he built a 5-2 lead in the fifth and seemed poised for victory. At 5-3 he was twice two points from winning the match. But Connors was unrelenting, impassioned, buoyed by a crowd that would not give up on him, and determined to find a way to win the match — no matter what it took. He somehow found his way to the win, coming through 3-6, 7-6, 1-6, 6-3, 7-6. When it was over, he turned to the fans in every section of the stadium and pointed at them appreciatively, as if to say, “You did it! You are the reason I won this match.”
He would win another dramatic, if less-riveting encounter over Paul Haarhuis in the quarterfinals. The Dutchman served for a two sets to love lead but was denied by an inspired and unwavering Connors. Propelled by a nighttime crowd, he came from behind dynamically to win in four sets. The improbable journey ended a few days later as Jim Courier upended him in straight sets.
But that loss could not diminish in the least what Connors had done. He would tell writer Mike Lupica a few years back why he valued that 1991 US Open so preciously. He said, “I should not have even been playing. Even now nobody talks about me having reconstructive wrist surgery the year before. I had been in a cast for four months. I should have been done. But it turned out I wasn’t. I found out what drove Ken Rosewall at that age and found out what drove Pancho Gonzalez at that age. Billie Jean King was right. I didn't plan on leaving the game with any what-ifs. And that Open made sure that I didn't, even if it was a tournament I didn't win."
